


Anvil Advice

by TheGoodDoctor



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Blue Mountains | Ered Luin, Family, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 06:53:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14159214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGoodDoctor/pseuds/TheGoodDoctor
Summary: Uncle Thorin is the grumpy town blacksmith who plays strange games about trade and diplomacy and all the boring bits of ruling that the stories gloss over.





	Anvil Advice

Kili is laughing almost too hard to run, stumbling to get his legs beneath him and moving. He sprints as best as he can away from his brother, leading them on little legs through the house, out of the kitchen, through the rain, across the yard and into the forge. Fili giggles, heavy boots thudding closer and closer with each step, and Kili puts on a last burst of speed as he careens through the door, into the dark workshop, and-

A large hand grabs the back of his shirt and lifts slightly, so that the young dwarf is hanging above the floor instead of planted face-first into the side of an anvil. Kili blinks at the solid mass of iron inches from his face and hears Fili skid to a stop behind him.

“Oops,” Kili says, almost hopeful.

Thorin gives a deep, rumbling sigh. “Careful,” he chides. “What have I told you about running in the forge?”

“Sorry,” Fili says as his uncle places his brother back on his feet. He traces lines on the dusty floor with his toe. “But Ama says we can't run in the kitchen either, so-”

“So you did both?” Thorin says wryly, picking up the sword he'd dropped and thrusting the tip into the coals. Fili has the grace to look embarrassed and Thorin huffs in amusement, running his hands through his long hair and twisting it, tying it into a bun with practised ease. Kili peers over the top of the anvil, holding himself up with his fingers curled around the edge. Thorin taps the other end lightly with his hammer and the vibrations make him let go. “Never put your hands on an anvil,” he says, rather sternly, as Kili looks up at him, wide-eyed in surprise. “No princes want flat fingers.”

“C’mon, Ki,” Fili says reluctantly. “Leave uncle alone.”

Kili pouts enormously and Thorin ducks his head to hide his amusement. “But there's nowhere to play,” he whines. 

As if to prove his point, thunder rolls overhead and the drumming of rain upon the roof gets heavier and faster.

“Where's your Amad?” Thorin asks, standing and putting his hammer down with feigned casualness, golden forgelight glinting on the silver beads in his hair.

Kili pulls a face. “Having dinner with Edda and  _ Leif _ ,” he says, and Fili and Thorin share a grin at the boy's dislike of his schoolmate. Suddenly, Kili brightens with an idea. “Can we play advisors? Please?”

“Left us to starve, has Amad?” Thorin says, without any real feeling, and stretches his stiff arms and back.

The boys nod happily. “Please?” Fili adds.

“Humph,” the heir to the throne of Durin says, scratching his beard thoughtfully. “I suppose there's time yet.”

With that, he scoops up Kili and places him, squeaking in surprise, on a table of unfinished commissions: cracked swords, rusted armour, worn horseshoes. Fili clambers up beside his brother, swinging his legs eagerly as he watches his uncle pump the bellows a few times and settle back on his chair by the anvil.

He eyes the boys thoughtfully, making Kili squirm. “Alright,” he says eventually. “There’s a group of men who have arrived in the kingdom and they want to trade. Their goods are much cheaper than others. But,” he says, holding up a finger to steady Kili, so eager to start talking he's almost wriggled off the table, “the quality is worse.”

“Buy stuff!” Kili says, grinning.

Thorin looks to Fili, suppressing a smile at his younger nephew's excitement. “Don't buy,” Fili says slowly, tugging on the short braid behind his ear.

Thorin nods. “Why should we buy, Kili?” he asks, gesturing to the boy to present his views.

“Because it's cheap, and we have to save money so that we can buy food for the people,” he says, wriggling in place, convinced he is right.

Thorin idly prods the coals beside him with the unfinished sword, sending sparks through the smokey gloom. “Fili, why not?”

“Because the quality is bad, so we'll end up paying more later,” he says thoughtfully. His uncle nods encouragingly. “And buying stuff from men means we don't support dwarves.”

“But if we spend too much money we can't eat,” Kili points out. “And that's not supporting dwarves.”

“Trade can boost an economy,” Thorin says, looking to his oldest nephew for a response.

“See! Irak’Adad agrees with me,” Kili says triumphantly, folding his arms across his chest.

Thorin laughs, folding his own arms and leaning back in his chair. “I didn't say that.” The thunder rolls and rumbles and the light from the forge flickers amber and gold across their faces. Thorin leans to one side, peering out of the door at the rain drumming against the ground. A couple of rivulets are sneaking into the forge and the yard is pockmarked with potholes from the heavy downpour. He frowns slightly at the damage before turning back to the boys.

“I think we should be more self-sufficient before we rely on cheap, poor quality items from the cities of men,” Fili pronounces. “Then we'll be able to support more people later.”

Thorin inclines his head and Fili grins, knowing he's looked at it carefully, like his uncle wants him to.

He sticks his tongue out at his brother and startles a laugh from Thorin. Kili pouts. “I'm always wrong,” he says unhappily.

“I didn't say that, either,” Thorin says, opening his arms. Kili drops off the table and scrambles up Thorin’s outstretched legs to curl up on his chest. “What I would do, based on the advice of my most trusted and wise counsellors,” he squeezes Kili gently to make him smile and nods at Fili, still swinging his legs on the table opposite, “is  _ allow _ the men to trade, but not to buy from them myself. This way, the crown supports dwarvish merchants, like Fili wants, but poorer dwarves in the kingdom can buy from them and save money, like Kili wants.”

“So...we were both right?” Fili says, frowning. Kili sticks his tongue out at him and Thorin runs a hand through his dark, wild curls in an attempt to tame them. The soft locks are almost long enough to put the boy’s first braid in, and the thought makes Thorin smile fondly.

“Not quite.” The boys turn their confusion on him. “The most important thing to learn about ruling is that you are never really completely right. If a solution looks perfect, you aren't looking closely enough,” Thorin says.

“That one looked alright,” Fili says.

Thorin raises one heavy brow. “But what of the dwarvish businesses that might be damaged by outside interests? Of the money not saved? Or even of the men, whose lives depend upon trade with our kingdom? What if traders do not return to our kingdom, having heard of our reluctance?”

Kili frowns. “This is hard.”

Thorin chuckles. “Yes, mizimith, it is. That's why I have you two: to help me make hard choices.” He looks at Fili. “You must listen to each other and to anyone who will give you advice, but you need not always take it. Listen to your heart, too. It will not lead you astray.”

Kili yawns widely on his uncle’s chest, snuggling closer to his uncle’s heartbeat. “What choice is next, Irak'Adad?” Fili says softly.

Thorin looks up at the boy, young and wise and destined for greatness. His nephews are vaguely aware that their uncle is the heir to one of the great kingdoms of the dwarves, have heard the stories of the dragon that stole their home from them, and know that they are princes; but the stories are just fairytales, ‘prince’ just another pet name their uncle gives them, their uncle just the grumpy town blacksmith who plays strange games about trade and diplomacy and all the boring bits of ruling that the stories gloss over. And Fili and Kili are just boys, barely old enough for braids and beads, and Thorin sits here behind his anvil, the symbol of what he is reduced to, and piles upon their tiny shoulders all the weight of his guilt and loss and fear. 

His heart contracts, then, and he listens to it. Thorin Oakenshield looks at his heirs and a soft smile rises unbidden to his lips.

“What, ghivashith,” Uncle Thorin says, standing with his younger nephew cradled against his chest and running his hand through Fili’s soft blond hair, “shall we have for dinner?”

**Author's Note:**

> amad - mother  
> irak'adad - uncle  
> mizimith - young jewel  
> ghivashith - young treasure


End file.
